The Fourth of July has special significance at my house. That’s because I am married to an English gentleman who, although he arrived in the United States in the 1960s and became a naturalized citizen, continues to live the lifestyle of a true Brit. While I run about draping the porch in American flags, he stays inside, draping the house in black.
My Brit’s lineage harkens back to roots in Holland. His ancestors were water sellers in Amsterdam (hence the name Waterman) who eventually brought this trade to the streets of 18th-century London. They carried fresh water into the city from outlying springs, bottled it, and sold it to thirsty Londoners.
My husband hails from the east end of London, an area called Hackney, which was then filled with the sounds of Cockney accents. Although he has been in this country for more than 40 years, he has never lost that Cockney speech. It’s like living with Michael Caine.
Of course, I have loved the sound of English accents ever since The Beatles arrived in New York in 1964. I was 9 and had a huge crush on Paul McCartney. This later developed into an obsession with blond, blue-eyed actor David McCallum on The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Ilya Kuryakin wearing a black turtleneck was just mouth-watering to this pre-teen. Then I saw Richard Burton wearing a toga in The Robe, and I was completely sold! (Ever notice how movie Romans always speak with British accents? Why is that?)
I have discovered three things about the English: They are exceedingly polite, they love tea, and they have peculiar names for things, including food. The first morning I woke with my husband I was treated to a steaming cup, handed to me by my smiling Brit. Ah, coffee! I need that first cup to jump start my anatomy and reboot my brain. But this was no cup of creamy sweet joe. It was tea! With milk and sugar in it! At 7 a.m.! Egad, what had I gotten myself into?
I have since discovered Cornish pasties (not what you think, these are British “calzones” without the flavor), bubble and squeak (hmm, sounds Shakespearean, but it’s really fried cabbage and sausages), bangers and mash (I know it sounds obscene, but it’s just English sausages and mashed potatoes), and spotted dick, a boiled pudding with raisins—hence the spots, but why the dick? Why the heck not? It’s British.
And don’t get me started on my Brit’s favorite: mushy peas. My God, when I saw this come out of the can, all I could think was, “Should I eat it or have I eaten it?” It looked like green barf on a plate. My husband happily scarfs it up with chips, which we call fries. What we call chips they call crisps. And breakfast? Eggs and chips with beans on toast. That’s right! Open a can of baked beans, heat ’em up, and pour ’em over slices of toast. Yum! With all that bubble, squeak, bangers, mushy peas, and beans, these guys had to be deadly in the parlor! We weren’t revolting, they were! No wonder we kicked them out—I’ve been tempted to do the same! There have been nights I’ve wondered if we were going to wake up in the morning.
The English are charming when they swear. Bloody hell, arse, and bollocks are just a few choice words, the last being my personal favorite. Bollocks are testicles, and if you say “Oh, bollocks!” it’s considered crude. But telling someone they are “the dog’s bollocks” is high praise. If you’re a toff, you’re wealthy; the gaffer is the boss; a tosser is a loser; a lorry is a truck; and a bum is what you sit on, but a fanny is not—it’s a vagina. To rabbit on is to natter, and to natter is to talk incessantly. If you’re cheeky, you’re being rude; cheers means thanks, and so does ta, but ta also means goodbye. A right mare and a wicked cow are names for rude or mean women, ducky is an endearment for women, and mum is what you call the Queen.
When my Brit’s doctor asked his weight, he replied, “12 stone.” When the doctor put him on the scale, he weighed 168 pounds. So a stone must weigh 14 pounds, but who calculated this and made it a standard? Whose stone was it, where did it come from, and where is it now? Actually, I rather like this method of weighing in. It sounds much nicer saying I weigh 15 stone instead of … well, you do the math.
My favorite utterance by my own Brit came out when we pulled into a crowded parking lot: “Bloody hell, it’s a circus of horrors!” That pretty much summed it up, too.
The Brit also loves soccer, especially when his team, Arsenal, is playing. But the English call it football. I asked him what they call American football and he replied, “Man ballet.” It must be all the gear our guys wear and their patting of bums. The English pride themselves in wearing minimal gear (shin guards), minimal clothing (shorts and a shirt), and playing in bad weather. I’m not kidding! I watched Tottenham play on a snow-covered pitch, also known as a playing field. They offered cups of tea and bacon sandwiches to any fans who helped shovel snow. And if you think soccer—uh, football—is fun, try watching cricket. Actor Robin Williams describes this game as baseball on Valium. He’s right.
The first Fourth of July I celebrated with the Brit and our then 5-year-old grandson (Mini-Brit), I handed out sparklers and lit a few spinners. Mini-Brit squealed with glee as spinners whizzed and threw off colorful sparks. The big Brit squealed in terror and fled. Mini-Brit ran up and down, screaming joyfully, while whirling lit sparklers in each hand. Big Brit ran away, screaming British swear words and flinging his sparklers at me while accusing me of trying to light him on fire. “You did that on purpose, you wicked cow!” he bellowed. “Yeah, and this is why you lost the war!” I retorted. Those bright red uniforms and shiny gold helmets didn’t help, either.
I guess I shouldn’t be so hard on him. After all, we have received many wonderful things from the English. The melody for our national anthem was an old English drinking song (so we improved on it), their national anthem is our beloved hymn My Country ’Tis of Thee (so we fixed that up a bit, too), and don’t forget William Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, John Constable, The Beatles, Peter Frampton, Carnaby Street, Newcastle beer, James Bond, Aston Martins, Cate Blanchet, Dennis Craig, and those lovely, sexy accents! God save the Queen! Ta! m
Ariel Waterman still has her original Man from U.N.C.L.E. lunchbox and thermos. Send her postcards from London via her editor, Ryan Miller, at rmiller@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Jul 2-9, 2009.